


Pyrrhic Victory

by WrithingBeneathYou



Category: Naruto
Genre: Consensual Sex, Established Relationship, M/M, silly bedroom shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-08-11 01:42:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20145484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WrithingBeneathYou/pseuds/WrithingBeneathYou
Summary: It’s intoxicating—the surge of power and the pleasure in knowing that the great Uchiha Madara has finally fallen.MadaTobi Week 2019Day 3: August 6th –Body swap// Prisoner of war





	Pyrrhic Victory

It’s intoxicating—the surge of power and the pleasure in knowing that the great Uchiha Madara has finally fallen. That it was by Tobirama’s own hand makes this victory all the sweeter.

He moistens his lips and does what he can with his eidetic memory, knowing it’s not enough. Some twisted part of him wishes that his eyes were the same red as the Sharingan, if only to capture this single instance of surrender.

The arch of a powerful back.

The clawing of fingers interlaced with his own.

The flattening of buttocks as he digs his knees into the floor and drives in deep. 

Tobirama bares his teeth in a snarl. There’s a beast within him and it _hungers_.

“Ah,” Madara pants as he rocks with the motion of another merciless thrust. “I never took you as—” He chokes on a strangled yelp when Tobirama uses the advantage of his position to bear down, sweaty chest pressed flush against his spine. “As the type to be too slow to satisfy.”

Being a suiton user, Tobirama isn’t familiar with the conflagration that takes root in the pit of his stomach at the challenge, but he’s always been a quick study. He grips Madara’s hands tight enough to ache and settles his elbows in the tender hollow of Madara’s own. The fire in his blood guides him, shows him what it means to consume entirely.

“The only pleasure that matters here is mine,” he hisses, dragging the suggestion of teeth across a muscular neck. There’s an almost imperceptible shiver and Tobirama knows the threat hasn’t gone unremarked. “My mouth. My hands. My _cock_. You’re nothing more than a sheath to use as I see fit.”

He pulls his hips back—lashes fluttering at the slightly too-dry drag—and stays still long enough to feel the impatient flutter of Madara’s hole around him. Kami, the gift of this vicious, glorious man beneath him is divine. A prisoner and a prize all housed in one dangerous but alluring package.

Tobirama is surely blessed.

“Is this the torture bit? Because if you don’t fucking move at some point, this reluctant war prize is going to put a Grand Fire Ball right through our floor,” Madara snaps as he tries fruitlessly to jerk back into the press of Tobirama’s hips.

The angle isn’t quite right and Tobirama inhales sharply as he shifts to accommodate. The smell of musk and sex is thick enough to taste, heady and intoxicating. It takes a second to swallow and regain his wind, to reassert himself as the brutal conqueror he’s supposed to be.

“If I so much as see your fingers twitch, Uchiha scum,” he begins in a voice that starts as a murmur and steadily gains in strength, “I’m going to snap them off and use them to pleasure myself while you watch.”

Pleased with his delivery, Tobirama eases back into the warmth he knows so well. Every centimeter of ground regained in this private skirmish between them is a pyrrhic victory. Arousal continues to coil in his loins, threatening to push him over the edge too soon even as he draws out a low moan from his captive lover.

The rhythmic clenching of Madara’s body around and beneath him is an almost insurmountable foe with regard to his stamina.

He grits his teeth and continues to take his pleasure. Orgasm calls out to him in a language comprised of groans and wet, lurid slaps. He wants this. He needs this first release so badly. Then he’ll work Madara to the breaking point with his hands and mouth.

But first he just needs this one taste of—

Madara’s shoulders begin to shake, small shudders at first, growing in amplitude.

As enticing as the siren song of his cock is, concern slams into Tobirama’s chest with sobering clarity. He shifts his hands from atop Madara’s to his hips and slowly eases out with a quiet pop.

“Are you well, Koibito?” he asks. Pitching his tone low, he paints soothing strokes down along the dip of Madara’s spine.

For his troubles, Madara lets loose a howl of laugher so loud it makes the air ripple.

“Snap them! And fuck yourself!” His merriment devolves into hiccupping guffaws that continue to strain the silencing seals embedded in their bedroom walls.

Tobirama narrows his eyes and watches his idiot husband shake, thighs tacky with lubricant and precome.

He takes it back. There is no benevolent kami.

Uchiha Madara is a curse bestowed upon him as recompense for some divine slight.

Tobirama will be made to rue each day of his continued existence.

Shinigami take him now.

“You’re the one who requested this sordid playacting,” he points out dryly. The cool air clings to the moisture on his skin. It’s exceedingly uncomfortable and only emphasizes his empty lap—an abrupt end to what was shaping out to be a rather promising night.

Madara collapses to his side, still chuckling, and looks up at his put-upon husband. The lamplight makes his ruddy cheeks glow.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, not repentant in the least. “I just—I’m going to use that line at the next clan meeting. It’s inspired.”

If Tobirama weren’t so fond of that ridiculous smile, he’d smother the contrary ass with his own hair. As it stands, he’s annoyed, his knees are sore, and he’s so erect it hurts. The last thing he cares to be reminded of is work.

“Good. While I finish myself, why don’t you retrieve a scroll and I’ll dictate an entire litany of sex-based threats to administer amongst your relatives.” He allows himself a lopsided smirk—not wholly an affect—and relocates to the futon to make good on the first part of their one-sided agreement. The rough slide of his own palm is nowhere near as satisfying, but it’s good enough to make his breath hitch, thighs falling open of their own accord.

Though he’ll never admit it, Madara’s wide-eyed scrambling is flattering.

He rocks up to his feet and quickly follows Tobirama to the futon, interrupting his stride only to stoop down and retrieve their misplaced jar of lubricant. The sheets sink and bunch up under his feet.

“Hands off, Senju. I’m nowhere near done with you yet,” he snaps, though there are no teeth behind it.

Tobirama rolls his eyes and forgoes his stroking with a sigh. Instead, he reaches up to accept and guide Madara’s weight astride his lap. “Are you going to insist we continue this nonsense tonight?” 

“Huh? Oh, that. No,” Madara scoffs as if he hadn’t been wheedling Tobirama for a week straight to pretend to use him like the spoils of war. “Maybe later. This is good, too. I want to make love to you just like this.”

The lower range of his baritone should be classified as a war crime for the damage it does to Tobirama’s resolve. He closes the space between them and takes the languid kiss he’s been waiting for all night. It’s slow, and sweet, and all that he needs to ameliorate any wrong ever done to him.

There’s an easy synchronicity to their bodies as they come together once again.

Ten years of marriage and this man still manages to make Tobirama’s heart race.

**Author's Note:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


End file.
